


Verraise

by patrexes



Series: xfiles.mp3 [6]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, Porn with Feelings, Snuff, Trans Male Character, Ἀγάπη | Agape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25386982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrexes/pseuds/patrexes
Summary: Resurrects target to a weakened state.2400 MP.
Relationships: Alisaie Leveilleur/Alphinaud Leveilleur
Series: xfiles.mp3 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587925
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	Verraise

Of everyone left awake in the Enclave—Yugiri tipsy enough to grin as she leans on Lyse to keep steady, Sadu leading a merry recounting of her day’s battles to an audience that looks to a one near ready to kiss her, even Hien quite literally letting his hair down with those Auri who seem so fond of him—none are more miserable than Alphinaud, and consequently Alisaie beside him. 

“Stop sulking,” Alisaie chides him, chin in her hands. 

“I’m not sulking,” Alphinaud lies. Alisaie jabs her elbow into his ribs. “Alisaie!” 

“You’re fine. Now what’s the matter with you? _Really_ ,” she presses. 

Low-voiced, Alphinaud abandons Eorzean in favor of privacy in Garlean all the rest are too distracted to recognize, if they can even hear it above the clamor: “‘Tis only… I can’t help but feel I’ve failed. Had my plan only been better, accounted for more variables, then the castle—” 

“—would still have been flooded, like as not. It was the path of least resistance.” Adrenaline racing unspent through her veins, Alisaie is displeased herself, for reasons she’d not dare voice to Alphinaud when he’s in a mood like this. “Our hands weren’t forced. Not by your tactics, and not by Lord Hien. We’ve naught to do but make our peace.” 

Alphinaud laughs joylessly. “ _Now_ there’s naught but such rationalization because _I_ did not argue well enough against a massacre. The weight on all of your consciences is mine to bear. So many lives—Doman and Garlean alike—could have been spared, and instead the requisite compassion is being wasted on attempts to, to spare my feelings.” 

The only wasted thing is words; there’ll be no making Alphinaud see sense when he’s this deep into his self-pity. Alisaie groans and grabs him by the wrist, his only objection a huff of air as she pulls him on dragged feet out of the revelry he’s spoiling. Carting him into the first empty room they find, Alisaie lets the door slam shut behind her. 

Where Alphinaud has words, Alisaie has action. She’s no taller than him—obviously—but looming is simply a state of mind, so loom she does. Grabbing his chin, she presses their lips together, thinking _stop being dumb_ loudly enough she wouldn’t be surprised if her brother could actually hear her. 

He deepens the kiss with a rough desperation that takes Alisaie off-guard: he’s always been the more shy of the two of them, always _wanting_ to be kissed or held or taken apart but hesitant to make the first move. He simply worried far too much, first _what if mama and father came to check on us?_ and later _if someone heard, what explanation could we possibly provide?_ What if, what if, what if—but they’re now just a hallway away from friends kept carefully in the dark regarding the nature of their closeness and Alphinaud hasn’t a single concern to voice. He pulls her closer, presses his fingers hard into the bruises on her upper arms and kisses her like he wants to choke on her æther, clings to her as one clings to consciousness. 

Alisaie uses her weight to pull him to the floor with her, turning her face away from his to break their kiss long enough to promise, “I’ve got you, I know what you need.” Still, Alphinaud clutches her arms like he’s afraid to let her go, and in a burst of irritation Alisaie shakes him off. Grabbing his wrists both in one hand, grip hard enough to bruise, she pins them above his head. “I’ve got you,” she insists. “Just let _go_.” 

Alphinaud needs to be taken apart, made to stop thinking, same as always. Alisaie herself feels like she’s rattling, coiled like a spring, a loaded gun. She wants to break something, some _one_ —she wanted to be on the front lines today, show off a little, prove herself. Instead she was stuck with Alphinaud turning off a trite bit of machina, because everyone looks at the two of them and thinks _liability_ , and because among all the Doman Resistance only they and Hien—educated under a compulsory Imperial education—could read the user manual Cid sent, with its Garlean script. To a few, maybe those facts are one and the same. 

Alisaie wishes she could have flown with Sadu, or fought with Lyse. The only blood on her hands is incidental, and it’s not the same rush at all—this, she will not tell Alphinaud, though she’s sure he knows, and judges, and blames himself for not talking better ethics into her when they were younger. 

A frown mars his features; however, when he speaks it’s no criticism of Alisaie’s own preoccupations but rather, “How do you want me?” 

“ _Silent_ , for starters.” Somewhere buried in her pack there’s a toy she found in Kugane, a strap-on dildo designed for Auri girls and chasers, and the size is as close to proportional for the two of them as any Alisaie has ever found or is likely to—fearless she may be, but it’s a different sort of confidence that has you walking into a specialty store requesting a wholly customized sex toy with measurements. Maybe Tataru has that kind of confidence but Alisaie doesn’t, and she also doesn’t want to answer any questions from Alphinaud’s best friend why she’s buying a toy like that. Even a pacifist like him can find a reason to kill, should you push them far enough. 

She’d love to take that strap now and facefuck him with it, _make_ him shut up and take it; the last time she did, he very nearly choked for gagging around her cock, acting like he’d never taken one before for all the crying and drooling, and his throat was left ragged for days afterward. But the toy is packed in their shared room with all the rest of their things, and Alisaie doesn’t want to traipse all the way back there, dragging Alphinaud at her heels: she wants to take him apart _now_ , so she can live with waiting to use the strap-on another day. Tomorrow, even, if it suits her. 

As soon as she has his clothes off, Alisaie presses three dry fingers inside her brother’s cunt, and he bites back his gasp—he can take them as easily as he can follow her order to keep silent, and he likes it significantly more. He’s liked it when it hurts for as long as Alisaie can remember, and whatever he’d been through in that time the two of them were parted that had left such nasty scars between his thighs, those memories hadn’t changed that. He’s wet around her searching fingers, curling up into him to drag her blunt fingernails against the part of the clit that hides behind the front wall of the cunt. On hands and knees above him, Alisaie dips her head to catch one of his nipples between her teeth. 

Alphinaud whines in pain, tugging against her grip, tight ‘round his wrists; he turns his face away as if he can hide behind his shoulder, and Alisaie knows without checking that if she pulled her fingers out of his twitching cunt they’d come away bloodstained. 

They’ve had each other as lovers since their time at the Studium, and found comfort sharing kisses in bed when they were still young enough they didn’t know what that meant; no less comfortable with each other’s bodies for a few years with little more contact than by linkpearl, when first Alphinaud and not long after Alisaie hit puberty, the two explored their bodies’ changes together, few as they were by comparison to most and so late in coming. Alphinaud’s tits are so tender at the start of his cycle even brushing past them with the backs of her fingers is enough to have him wincing. Alisaie, for her part, spends the few days before her own begins so desperate she could get herself off untouched for nothing more than a particularly compelling thought, and the way Alphinaud nearly sobs for a bite that usually has his hips arching up into the curl of Alisaie’s palm makes sense of the enormity of her current need, the restless feeling in her bones the rush of not only adrenaline but adolescent hormones. 

Alisaie presses a kiss to his sternum, between the swell of his sore tits. “Sorry,” she offers, because she had everything in front of her she needed to put this all together and she hadn’t, and then she kisses and nips her way down the line of Alphinaud’s belly. 

He squirms caught beneath her, his breath coming with the shakiness of unwanted laughter. “ _Alisaie_ —!” 

Alisaie restrains the impulse to push him further just because she can: time enough to torment him later, when all they need is entertainment, not whatever it is they’re looking for now. Alphinaud reassurance, perhaps, that Alisaie won’t leave him, that he needn’t prop the weight of all the world on his thin shoulders. Alisaie doesn’t know what she wants, at the very least not in words she much likes the sound of, and because Alphinaud knows better than to ask them of her she simply repositions herself between his thighs. 

When they were thirteen, they were identical but for Alphinaud’s ever-split lip, casting Physick when Alisaie was only going to bite him bloody again feeling like a waste of time; at twenty, it’s still Alphinaud’s injuries which distinguish them, scars on his back and curling around his ribcage from the lash, and between his legs evidence of violence that made Alisaie fight back the urge to be ill. They’ve never spoken of it, not unless one counted bitter _it’s fine_ s Alisaie earned herself for carefulness, and she certainly didn’t; she doubted if he had his way they ever would, Alphinaud simply letting her go on forever as if nothing had ever changed—as if Alisaie had never left Alphinaud alone to get himself hurt. 

The flash of anger that burns through her is unexpectedly fierce, a burst of _I’m the only one who’s allowed to break you_ , and Alisaie punctuates it with her teeth on the sensitive skin of Alphinaud’s inner thigh, just below the join. He gasps, jerking beneath her, his hips hitching up; spurred on, Alisaie hooks her free arm under his leg and pulls him close to taste the copper brightness of his wet cunt. 

Alphinaud whines as Alisaie fucks him on her fingers, catching one of his labia between her teeth and dragging back, rough. She needn’t look up from between his legs to know there’s tears in his eyes, because sex always makes him cry and Alisaie knows his limits well enough to skate their edge. She drags his orgasm out of him bloody, and only after—licking the taste of him off her fingers and the palm of her hand—that she considers her own need. 

As fun as taking Alphinaud apart always is, Alisaie still finds herself restless and wanting, the bruises and bitemarks strewn across her brother’s skin making her only greedy for more. From a sheath on her belt Alisaie pulls a small knife, wickedly sharp—Alphinaud has pushed himself up on his elbows to watch her, and his eyes are wide, pale blue swallowed up by the black of his pupils. Alisaie is relatively sure it’s arousal writ across his features rather than fear, but the needy twitch of her own fingers, how desperately she wants this, makes fear build up sickly in the pit of her stomach. 

They’ve played with knives before: Alisaie has fucked herself open on the hilt of one, she’s cut away her brother’s clothes and let him stay unharmed for only his stillness beneath the sharp blade at his skin. The times she’s cut him—nicked him, really, all of them accidents, slips of her hand or Alphinaud himself fidgeting too much beneath her—she still thinks about, hand curled between her thighs but guilty, too, for how much she loves making him bleed. How much further she goes, when it’s only a fantasy. 

“Wait,” says Alisaie, and her voice shakes but she thinks it’s resolute enough. “I shouldn’t.” 

Alphinaud looks at the knife, its wicked gleam reflecting the lamplight back against his own bare skin. His lips part, and he wets them with his tongue, thin film of blood painting them like rouge. Knowing her so well he hears what she’s left unspoken, he says low-voiced, “You won’t go too far.” 

“You don’t—you don’t know how I can be now. What I want to do.” Alphinaud has always been fragile, and Alisaie has only ever gotten more vicious. “I could really hurt you.” 

He pushes himself up the rest of the way to sitting, bringing a hand soft to cup Alisaie’s cheek with a fond smile across his lips. “Do you remember,” he murmurs, “when we were children, and you practiced Physick for weeks on end?” 

“I remember.” Alisaie lets her hand fall to her side, still holding the knife but loosely, half-curled in her fingers. Grandfather thought she’d wanted to know so she could be less careful in her acrobatic endeavors, and she’d had to beg and beg him to show her, promising she wouldn’t be foolish unsupervised. Alphinaud he would have taught in an instant, because the most dangerous thing Alphinaud ever did was keep talking, but when they were children everyone had given up on the chance Alphinaud would ever become proficient in arcanima, so it had fallen to Alisaie. She’d only wanted to know how to clear away the bruises she wanted to leave on her brother’s neck. 

“You’ve never done anything to me you can’t undo.” Alphinaud’s lips press to Alisaie’s own, and she parts her lips into the kiss. On his lips, on her tongue, all she can taste is his blood, bright and metallic, and it makes her hungry. Alisaie lowers him back to the floor, careful with the knife in her hand as she cups the back of his neck to lead him down. 

“You trust me?” 

“I trust you,” he affirms. Alisaie kisses the corner of his lips, and brings the blade to his side, dragging the sharp tip against his ribcage. It’s still only hard enough to bring up welts, and Alphinaud whines, hiking up his hips to rut against Alisaie’s thigh, slippery with blood and slick. She sucks bruises into his neck and brings the blade up between their bodies, sharp against both their sternums, and the thin line of blood she brings up on her own belly drips into the quick-pooling rivulet winding its way down Alphinaud’s, the path twisting for how much he writhes beneath her. 

He’s keening under her, his fingernails digging hard into Alisaie’s arms. When she drags her bare finger down the cut, she can fee the sides of the cut cling like the lips of his cunt, the blood welling up around her touch, displaced by her. She wants to dig _her_ nails in, break through the skin to curl her fingers around his ribs, caress organs that _he_ can’t possibly feel but _she_ can: a part of him that she can have that belongs to nobody else, not even to him. 

“Please,” Alphinaud is murmuring, barely audible, his eyes never settling on her face. His fingers on her arms are shaking. “Please, please, more, plea—” and his supplication breaks off into a gasp as Alisaie grants him the wish, twists her knife and sinks it deep into his abdomen, hilting it like a cock. 

The sound Alphinaud makes is so high it _breaks_ , and torn muscle pulses around the blade like he’s coming, even though Alisaie knows full well he isn’t, not when she hasn’t let him yet. She steals a kiss from his lips, and he sobs into her mouth. It must hurt, the blade still in him, his muscles all tense and jarring the knife, but he’s quiet after the first shriek, and he gives as good as he gets, biting down on Alisaie’s tongue until she can taste her own blood bright and warm in her mouth. 

With her free hand, Alisaie wrenches Alphinaud’s head back by his braid; spits her blood in his face. “Next time,” she says, dark and low, “you beg me to get to do that.” 

His focus scattered, Alphinaud nods a frantic affirmative, and Alisaie bites her way down the line of his throat. She can feel his cry on her tongue when she wrenches the blade out of him, and again when she replaces it with her fingers, fucking in and out of her brother’s stab wound on the dusty stone floor, hidden behind only an unlocked door a hall away from the reverie. Alisaie’s teeth find Alphinaud’s shoulder, and she curls her fingers inside of him as he shakes apart beneath her. 

Alphinaud gasps, ragged, as Alisaie slips her fingers from the wound, sticky with blood all the way past her knuckles, and pins his knees to his chest. Normally, she’d bite his tits bloody—make of his whole body a scabbed bruise that drags painful against his layers and never lets him forget she’s had him—but as much as Alisaie relishes hurting her brother and making him cry, there’s no joy in doing anything he wouldn’t like. She can ravage his tits next week, when they’re no longer so sensitive. 

Alisaie holds the underside of Alphinaud’s knee and the hilt of her knife in the same grip, and the flat of the blade presses into the delicate skin as she bites neat rows of bruises down the inside of his thighs, brutalizing all but the few ilms before the join of his legs. It’s a conspicuous avoidance of his cunt, and how Alisaie has him pinned he’s nothing to grind against, only able to take what she offers him, dripping slick from the lips of his cunt and dripping blood onto the floor. But neither can she grind off against his thigh, and her need makes her fingers twitch. Adjusting her grip, she lets Alphinaud’s leg go only to pin it once more with her elbow, freeing up her blood-soaked hand to slip between her own thighs. 

These fingers were inside of him, _really_ inside of him, and now she’s pressing them into herself, rubbing her clit with her thumb and curling her fingers inside of her until she finds the place that has _her_ sounding wanton as Alphinaud, biting her moan into the underside of his knee. 

He jerks beneath her, a desperate sound in his throat, and knots his fingers in her hair to drag her between his thighs—but Alisaie has always been stronger than him, and he has a poor angle besides. 

“Alisaie,” he begs, his voice all but broken, “ _please_ —” 

“Do you really trust me?” she asks, looking up at him to catch his eyes, blood smeared across both their faces. “‘Nothing I can’t undo’—you really believe that?” 

There’s a look in his eyes, the start of—probably—a correction of however she’d just paraphrased him. But so rarely does Alisaie approach things with gravitas he lets it go: for good or ill, this is a turning point in their relationship, Alphinaud’s answer poised to paint their every interaction from here on out. 

“Of course I trust you,” says Alphinaud, without any hesitation. 

Alisaie looses him from her grip, crawling up above him so they’re eye to eye once more as he lowers his feet to the floor. There are no words to properly describe the look they share when their eyes meet, twenty years of trust and love and codependence in a single glance; Alisaie presses a soft kiss to Alphinaud’s half-parted lips, eyes still open and fixed upon his. 

The kiss may start chaste, but—as ever—that’s not how it remains: within moments Alisaie’s teeth are clamped onto Alphinaud’s lip and he’s crying out into her mouth as she reaches down, retrieving her knife. Slips her hand between their legs and levels the flat of the blade against the wet lips of his cunt. 

With a hard jerk of her wrist, Alisaie makes a deep cut into Alphinaud’s inner thigh, slashing through her own tooth marks. Alphinaud’s scream is silent: only a burst of air Alisaie takes deep into her own lungs. Rolling over to lay beside him without breaking their kiss, Alisaie lets the knife fall forgotten between the tangle of their legs, knees intertwined. She presses all four of her fingers into his cunt, as deep as the blood flaking off her knuckles, and her thumbnail she digs hard into the skin above his labia. It seems to Alisaie like there should be scars, but there’s only nothing there, where between her own legs she can feel the pulse of her heartbeat in her swollen clit. 

Alphinaud’s own hand quests between Alisaie’s thighs in turn, three shaking fingers curling inside of her, and his own thumb rubbing circles over her clit. He’s too weak to offer the pressure Alisaie needs, the cut across the artery in his thigh leaving him pale from blood loss and fading fast. Curled up together in his pooling blood and Alphinaud’s face half-buried in Alisaie’s hair, she takes his hand in hers, holding him steady and setting the pace as Alphinaud struggles to maintain it—fucking herself on his limp fingers as his consciousness fades. 

Alphinaud’s shallow breaths rasp in Alisaie’s ear as she brings herself ever closer to the edge, and then they cease. She comes on his fingers, on his _corpse’s_ fingers, and it’s not her release that has Alisaie crying out but the power she wields, Alphinaud’s unfailing, unbreakable trust in her. One day, he pressed a kiss to her lips and the power over his life and death into her hands in the selfsame instant, and Alisaie could not name the day. It feels like she should be able to, to find the moment in her memory that Alphinaud gave her _everything_ , but she can’t even begin to guess. They might have been children, curled up in their childhood bed; they might have been students, finally given leave with the anonymity of a dormitory to make each other scream; they might have been tangled in a ship cot whispering in soft-voiced Garlean promises on the long journey to Eorzea, or apologies on the way to Kugane. 

Wherever, _whenever_ it happened that Alphinaud gave her his life, it’s only with his dead body in her arms Alisaie realizes how precious a gift it is. She presses a kiss to his slack lips, keeps her fingers buried in his cunt still as she can make them, and on her discarded belt Alisaie’s æther crystal flickers alight, levitating scant ilms above the ground. 

She doesn’t want to heal herself—she wants the sting of the few wounds she gave herself and moreover those Alphinaud left—so she waits out the long seconds red magic requires to raise the dead, counting them off in her head. Alphinaud comes to with a soft inhale and his cunt spasming weakly around her fingers, wounds stitched shut but bruises left dark purple on his skin, and Alisaie wants to smooth those away even less than her own hurts, wants her marks left on her brother’s skin, devotion writ in blood. 

Later, Alisaie will help Alphinaud to his feet, letting him lean against her as a pillar as she leads him back to their room, settles him down and scrubs the mess off his skin. Now, though, she lays here with him on cold stone in a pool of cooling blood, and slips gore-slick fingers free of his cunt to ghost fingertips across the fresh band of scar tissue bisecting Alphinaud’s inner thigh, and she welcomes her brother back to the land of the living with a whisper and a self-satisfied smile against his chapped lips.


End file.
